


hearts bending now will break

by hunted



Category: Vera (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Age Difference, Canon Compliant, Cheating, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Height Differences, Infidelity, Kissing, Love Confessions, Lovers to Friends, Older Woman/Younger Man, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pillow Talk, Post-Episode: s02e03 A Certain Samaritan, Regret, Romance, as this fandom is extremely small, i am fully aware that this will likely be me throwing fics out into the void
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29640129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: He was beautiful. That was one of the first things Vera noticed about him......Don't mind me, just writing explicit fic for my OTP since there's literally none out there for me to enjoy. Title taken fromLife Sentence. Enjoy!!
Relationships: Joe Ashworth/Vera Stanhope
Kudos: 11





	hearts bending now will break

He was beautiful. That was one of the first things Vera noticed about him.

Oh, she noticed everything else too. His steady gaze and keen interest, his willingness to learn, his easy smiles and sense of humour which would help him cope with the pain to come. She noticed his tidy haircut, never a strand out of place. His clothes, always ironed and neat. She knew Joe would be a good copper the moment she met him, knew that he’d respond well to her. Kind enough to be a new breed of law enforcement, remind her of the rules when she got too old-fashioned, but clever and aggressive enough to do what was necessary.

But his work ethic, his exemplary career trajectory, all of the points in his favour- they paled in comparison to the shape of his face, the way his eyes tightened when he smiled. The line of his jaw and the arch of his neck. How the backs of his hands looked, strong and broad, when he rubbed at his face in exhaustion. Vera thought, one night after one too many bottles, that he had a woman’s beauty. A certain gentleness about his features, a loveliness to his eyes. Not many men were _beautiful._ Not in the way Joe was. They were handsome. Stoic. Attractive. Rough and appealing, like Kenny. But Joe was something different.

Vera was a tough woman. Gritty. Determined. Cold. She blazed like fire, and she knew those around her often got burned. Her colleagues served under her with respect, resentment, and affection. She knew she possessed a certain kind of warmth, knew her flame was good for something, saw the shift in grieving relatives’ faces when she dared crack a smile. Those around her loved her as passionately as they hated her. And that was fine. She had her booze and her big, empty house. She knew what she wanted from life, knew the grim service she had committed herself to.

But Joe complicated things.

Vera didn’t enjoy lashing out at the best of times, hated the blood which ran through her veins; the blood of a bully. She was her father’s daughter. And, honestly speaking, she had been her father’s son, too. That had been the expectation. So now she was left barking his words and staring murderers in the eye, watching herself become encased in the bitter, unshakeable, suffocating shell of loneliness.

Joe spoke up when she pushed too far. He argued. He shook his head and raised his voice, always backed up by calm reasoning, facts that she was too hot-headed to admit were relevant. And it hurt, to see him like that. To see his gorgeous profile settling into anger, the muscles of his face tightening and loosening, a deliberate blankness that pained her greatly.

But what hurt the most is that he always returned.

He sat in her passenger seat. Bought her apples and salad, nudged them closer even when she tossed them back in his face. Stood toe-to-toe with her in the ring, sparring with theories and logic. Backed her up when she dashed ahead to a crime scene, threw himself into danger recklessly and with no regard for his own safety. Plunged off cliffs to rescue drowning women and children, making Vera nauseous with the fear- bordering on certainty- that she’d later be seeing that beautiful boy on a morgue slab.

She didn’t know whether he was becoming like her, but she hoped he wasn’t. No, he was too soft for that. And that was a word Vera rarely used kindly, but in Joe’s case, his softness was an asset. Witnesses melted like chocolate around him, men and women alike charmed so easily, because he wore his heart on his sleeve when it suited their cause. And looking the way he did was no harm either.

He sliced through her defences with his relentless, unending honesty. He didn’t play the game that she did, didn’t follow the code which her generation of coppers considered gospel. He didn’t read between the lines and let it go with a stiff nod. He dug it up. Dragged it out. Exposed it to sunlight and asked questions that nobody else would dare. Located her father’s girlfriend. Played that damn tape. Hunted for her vulnerabilities, begged for a glimpse into her heart, dared her to let him in, all without any real clue as to _why._

She remembered him sitting in her kitchen chair, forearms resting against his thighs, hands dangling between spread legs. His face had been thrown partly into shadow by her home’s poor lighting, his lips pink and perfect, soft like rose petals next to dark stubble and creamy white skin. His tie had been loosened, collar undone. The hollow of his throat visible.

_How old were you when your mam died?_

The question had stunned her. But, even more so, she was floored by his explanation.

_I’m just interested._

He just sat there, letting the words linger, settle between them. She’d held his gaze, waiting for something more. Waiting for him to justify it further. But the moment had stretched on, and the quiet, gentle cadence of his voice nestled deep inside her chest. Somewhere precious and buried, far below the protective casing of her ribcage and her alcoholic antisocialism. Joe cared about her. He wanted to know because he _wanted_ to know.

Heat rose to her cheeks. A flush that she’d not felt for years.

She was the one to look away first.

***

The first time was the only time.

Grief did things to people. Anger, too. Vera felt everything. There was no sensation, no fury, which didn’t whip through her tired body like an invisible tornado. She found herself in a field, trying to breathe, trying to run from her father and his bloody house, from all of the terrible betrayals he managed to scar her with- even beyond the grave. The bastard. The _bastard._

_You’ve got a sister!_

Joe had sounded so excited. A thrill in his eyes. Less about the news than his sense of accomplishment, his glee and exhilaration upon finding another piece of her, touching something profound. The kitchen had felt too small, her father’s ghost looming over her with all the righteous judgement of his life, but she had wanted to stay for Joe. To be near him, the subject of his interest and affection. How strange it was, to have a beautiful lad so besotted with you. She felt old. She felt angry. She felt sad. She felt confused.

Vera didn’t like feeling confused.

Footsteps approached her, distant at first, growing louder. Grass pushed by confident strides, shoes sinking into the ground and being lifted out with authority. Here he was. Coming, yet again, to seek her weaknesses. She didn’t know if it was a kindness or a cruelty. She didn’t know what love was, not after so long. She knew that it hurt. She knew that beaten dogs tended to bite.

Joe walked up behind her, stopped. She was leaning on the fence, face still wet from crying, the sweet taste of honey on her tongue. The air was becoming cooler, night falling so quickly that she knew it’d be pitch black soon. She listened to Joe breathe. Listened to the wind.

“I’m sorry.”

Her chest ached, and she closed her eyes. His murmured apology was too much to take. He was too much to take. She wanted to be held by him. She wanted the pain to go away. She hated that he made her want this.

“A man died in your arms today, ma’am. And with everythin’ that’s gone on, I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have interfered.”

She replaced the lid of the honey jar.

“No,” she said eventually, “You shouldn’t have.”

The words were heavy. They fell from her mouth like a dead weight. She turned around slowly, facing him. His head was bowed in shame, hands hanging by his sides.

“But I’m glad you did.”

He looked up, face pinched by a tight frown, desperation in his eyes. She smiled, but the expression faltered, lips quivering.

“That bloody floorboard had been botherin’ me for ages,” she clarified, voice wavering, “I’d have found the photo. Put two and two together. Thanks to you, I… have a name. What I’ll do with it…" She sighed. "Well. But at least I know.”

He looked at her, and she could plainly see his distress. He needed to soothe the wounds he had opened, needed to make up for the gracelessness with which he'd blundered through the tenuous landscape of her family life. He was so young. Shattered right down to his bones, all by the taut skin between her brows, the moisture around her eyes. She'd never experienced this before. Someone determined to be close to her. Help her. Know her. Seeing her like this, seeing her cry, was hurting him.

He stepped closer to her, reaching out a hand slowly, like he was asking for permission. Or approaching a hurt animal. She'd ordinarily have stepped back, flinching away from anyone who dared comfort her, not used to such kindnesses. But she was raw in ways she'd not been for years, vulnerable to him.

She looked up at him as he raised a soft palm to her face. He rested his hand against her cheek, and she found her eyes sliding closed, a breath shivering from between her lips. Something ached inside her. Like a dying fire, like the quivering urge to cry. She hadn't realised how much she needed this until he dared touch her. She leaned her head into his tender grasp.

He dragged his thumb beneath her eye, smearing away the shine of her tears.

"I really am sorry," he whispered.

Her smile wobbled, lips pressed together. "I know you are, Joe. I know."

She opened her eyes, looked at him. He was still touching her face, but more importantly, she hadn't tried to stop him.

There was a barely-perceptible shift in his expression, a tightening of his eyes. That was all the warning she got before he leaned down, just as slowly as he had reached towards her. She saw it coming, of course. And she could have pushed him away, could have planted the heel of her palm against his sternum, slammed him into the ground. But she didn't. She closed her eyes once again, heart breaking cleanly in two when his mouth met hers. Vera was in pain. She had been, for a long time. She hadn't known love that came without conditions, expectations, and cruelty. The only cruelty Joe offered was the truth that sat upon his finger, the ring that was cool and hard when he lifted both hands to cup her face, grass rustling as he stepped closer and leaned down more intently.

If it was chaste to begin with, something they perhaps could have lied about later, it soon became something more. Vera held his waist, hands pressed against the line where his shirt met his waistband, palms seeking the shape of him. He licked into her mouth, exhaling hotly, their breaths mingling. Vera's heart was humming like a trapped rabbit's, and she distantly supposed that this was all due to the emotional shock of her father's betrayal, the confirmation of all her worst fears, and the manifestation of things even more terrible. The child. The sister. The lies.

She pulled away from him, breathing harder now. So was he. The dimming light sat prettily against him, his eyes bright with emotion. He smiled, and that made it harder.

"Joe..."

"I know. I know."

"You adore your wife."

"I adore you."

Vera swallowed thickly. Joe's face collapsed into despair, his smile faltering. He leaned into her, forehead against hers, nose bumping against the side of her face. She held him, and could've sworn the pain they shared flowed freely between their bodies, transcending the physical.

"She knows."

"Knows what, love?"

"She knows that I... She knows how much you mean to me, and she..."

"She'd not approve of this," Vera insisted brokenly, their lips still so close together. They were huddling for warmth in the corner of a field, far away from the rest of the world, and all she wanted to do was touch him. "You know that."

He shook his head. Whether in denial or agreement, it was difficult to say. She heard him choke, a sob caught in his throat.

***

They walked back to her home, the looming prison with walls that held a father's judgement. Joe walked ahead of her, hands buried in his pockets, steps quick and hasty. She followed more slowly, full of shame and need and loneliness.

He waited for her in the kitchen, coat over his arm, ready to leave. Questions rested heavy behind his lips, against his tongue. The practicality of it all. Would she tell anyone? How would they act tomorrow, at work? Would he need to transfer elsewhere? A clock had begun ticking, the moment his lips touched hers, and they both knew it. Perhaps that was why he did it.

He stared at her, a billion thoughts racing through his head, the expanse of the kitchen simultaneously longer than a city, and shorter than a breath. She looked back at him, not sure what to say, not sure what he'd do.

Joe took the coat off his arm. Placed it on the table. Vera said nothing. He crossed the space between them, walking slowly away from the wife he loved, and she still said nothing.

When he kissed her, softly and carefully, she kissed him too.

They both knew there was no way back.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 will arrive at some point!!


End file.
